All The Ways I've Said Hello Again
by neverbeenunloved
Summary: Ten years after his "death", Neal Caffrey (now Richard Wells) has built a life for himself in Paris - but a priceless Picasso, a new CI by Peter's side, and an unknown foe bring him back to New York and drag him back into the life he thought he had left behind forever. Can he still protect everyone he loves? Post-series. Spoilers for all seasons and a slightly AU season 6.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is my first story in the White Collar fandom, and hopefully I get to finish it. Everything has been planned out — I just have to finish writing it! Prologue to this story is basically an AU of 6x06. Spoiler alert!**

 **PROLOGUE**

 **One year after Neal Caffrey's death**

Mozzie made his way to DeKalb Avenue, trying to his best to be on time and help Mrs. Suit feed little Neal and regale him with stories of his namesake — the Disney versions, of course. He walked briskly, stopping only when he spotted a wooden box on the Burkes' front steps.

He cautiously drew nearer, taking his time and mentally readying himself in case it was some sort of explosive. He reached the front steps and gingerly took the box in his hands. Too light to be explosives, to heavy to be a smoke bomb — but just the right weight to be a bottle of wine. He gently removed the top panel and was greeted by a bottle of Bordeaux nestled in packing straw.

Mozzie inhaled sharply. There was only one mutual acquaintance of his and the Burkes who would send a message like this: Neal Caffrey. Neal Caffrey had been shot a year ago. Mozzie had seen him with his own eyes. Mozzie had cried and exhausted every possible conspiracy theory. The body was real. The DNA was real. There was no choice but to accept it and move slowly, painfully, through the stages of grief.

And yet…

Mozzie turned the bottle over in his hands, looking for some kind of code or note etched or written into the glass or the brown label. Both he and the Burkes knew that a Bordeaux bottle meant goodbye for Neal — Kate had used it on him when she disappeared. Some part of him was jealous that Neal had left a message for the Burkes but none for him — he who had practically been his friend longer than Peter. Then he realized that Neal did send him a message.

The sudden flare of jealousy resided immediately as he absentmindedly brushed a free hand against his shirt pocket, the other hand holding the Bordeaux. Inside his shirt pocket was the Lady, the playing card that Neal had given him just before the heist, just before his death.

 _It was almost as if he knew._

Mozzie exhaled slowly, resigned to the fact that the bottle was just that — a goodbye. Until he saw the cork.

 _701._ Just before his death, Neal had cryptically told him that he needed some things to be placed into safekeeping from the Panthers and Mozzie had directed him to a storage lot where old shipping containers were dumped until some use could be found for them. Neal had thanked him and disappeared for the rest of the day.

Mozzie bet that 701 was a number of a shipping container in that lot. It could hold answers to everything — all the little questions that had nagged at Mozzie from the very start. Again, jealousy reared his ugly head when he realized that Neal had no intention of telling him, but he had left a clue for Peter. But then again, Mozzie's rational side won out when he realized that Neal may have calculated that Peter would share it with him anyway, if he figured it out.

He gently placed the bottle back in the wooden box and replaced the top panel, giving it one final pat and straightening himself, smoothing down his shirt before climbing up the steps and ringing the Suits' doorbell.

The next day, Mozzie made his way to the storage lot and stood in front of the shipping container. He made quick work of the standard lock and opened the container's doors slowly, trying to minimize the creaking noise of the rusted metal. He made his way inside, observing the wooden boxes which probably held Caffrey original paintings, done by Neal over his years in New York. He saw the mannequin at the far end, staring eerily at him. He fingered the bullet hole in the mannequin's chest and his eyes slowly roved over the adjacent wall where a corkboard had been installed.

 _The poison of the puffer fish. The effects of this. A hired doctor and EMT responder. And finally, a year-old newspaper with the new Louvre security upgrade splashed across the front page._

And then he _knew._ He, Mozzie, with all his paranoia and suspicions and conspiracy theories, had been right. This was a con — Neal Caffrey's greatest con! As a professional conman himself, he could marvel at the intricacies of the operation: the actual dependence on Keller to shoot him, the timing between the self-administration of the poison and the arrival of the EMTs, and the effort given to fool his own two closest friends.

As Neal's friend, all his pent-up anger and frustrations built up until his hands were shaking. He balled his hands into fists and slammed them onto the table. Why hadn't Neal told him? Why hadn't Neal let him in? Why did Neal leave him behind?!

Well, no matter. He would simply follow, as good friends were wont to do, he thought sarcastically. Glancing around, he knew that Peter would eventually find this place and want to do the same. He grabbed a lighter from the table and swiftly set the newspaper alight, stomping out the ashes and leaving black smudges on the floor. Neal had done his hardest to ensure that they thought he was dead — there was no reason to let Peter know where he actually was. It would only cause unnecessary pain.

And besides, Mozzie thought selfishly, Peter had done enough for Neal. Where he and Neal would go, how they would live, Peter could never follow. All his efforts trying to lead Neal to the straight, legal path would all be in vain. No, better to let Peter know that Neal was alive and leave it at that. Peter could try, but Peter would never find them.

He took one final glance around to make sure that there was no other evidence leading to Paris and walked out of the shipping container, leaving behind the Lady. This was a new chapter in their lives — leaving New York behind and everyone, everything in it.

He closed the doors gingerly and replaced the lock, making sure that there were no signs of entry. He walked out of the lot, mentally making plans for his disappearance.

Which was why he didn't hear the footsteps behind him or the silenced shot that hit him in the base of his spine. He felt the ground rushing towards him, heard footsteps fading away and a car pulling up nearby.

Peter's worried face and frantic voice yelling into his cellphone for a 911 response were the last things he heard and saw before he blacked out.

The first things he heard were the steady beeping of machines nearby and his first sensation was of scratchy sheets and a dull pain in his right hand. _IV connection,_ his sluggish brain supplied. _I'm in a hospital._ His eyes fluttered open and he vaguely registered the presence of someone else beside his bed.

"Hey Moz," Elizabeth said gently, squeezing his other hand in her own.

"Mrs. Suit," Mozzie acknowledged, turning his head to face her and finding his throat dry. "Shouldn't you be with baby Suit?"

"We got him a babysitter. I was so worried when Peter called. Oh, here, don't try to speak so much yet." Elizabeth held a cup of ice chips and placed one gently in his mouth. "This should help."

Mozzie nodded his thanks and let the ice melt in his mouth, the cool water running down his dry throat. Elizabeth let go of his hand and walked to the door, opening it and gesturing to someone outside. "He's awake, hon."

Peter entered the room and smiled at Mozzie. "Mozzie, how're you feeling?"

"It's Theodore Winters," Mozzie murmured. "Somehow, I didn't plan on getting shot twice and ending up back in the system again, but other than that…"

He froze. His body had taken time to wake up and now he realized that something was wrong.

"I can't feel my legs. Why can't I feel my legs?" He was getting more frantic by the second. Try as he might, he couldn't move a single muscle, not even wiggle his toes.

Peter and Elizabeth exchanged a mournful look. It was Elizabeth who spoke. "Moz, we can get the doctor in here if you'd like him to explain…"

"No, tell me now," Mozzie interrupted. eyes still focused on his perpetually still legs under the covers. "Why can't I move my legs?" His eyes were filling with tears. Peter moved closer.

"The bullet hit you in the spine, Moz. You were in surgery for six hours. The doctors were able to save you and get the bullet out, but…"

"…but I'm paralyzed from the waist down." Mozzie finished. tears running down his face.

"I'm sorry," Peter said sadly, sitting down beside the bed and putting a hand on Mozzie's shoulder. Elizabeth made her way to the other side and took Mozzie's hand in her own. "I wish I could have been there sooner," Peter lamented. "I didn't even see the shooter. There are no cameras in that area — no way at all to track him. I'm sorry, Mozzie."

"I didn't see him either," Mozzie replied brokenly. "Thank you, for saving me. I'd — I'd like to be alone now, if you don't mind."

Peter and Elizabeth's eyes met and agreed silently. "Of course, Moz," Elizabeth agreed quietly. "You know to call if you need anything. I'll be back tomorrow with your care package." She gave him a quick kiss on the forehead. "You're going to be okay. We'll be here." Mozzie nodded his thanks and watched as she exited the room.

Peter watched his wife leave and turned back to face Mozzie. "Mozzie, I feel terrible for asking this now…but I went to the container. I know now. Everything. Did—did you?" Peter's voice was dangerously close to breaking, but his eyes held on to hope.

Mozzie steeled himself for the final lie. If he couldn't get out of New York and ever follow Neal, then he would protect his escape for the rest of his life. Ironic, that his own greatest con would be protecting Neal.

"No, I didn't." He turned to look at Peter in the eyes, willing him to believe that it was the truth.

It worked. Peter sighed and leaned back in the chair. "Do you know where he is?" His voice was still eager, still believing that Neal had confided in Mozzie his location. With a pang of jealousy, Mozzie wished that Neal had. But he couldn't let Peter know that. Neal had gotten his freedom and paid the price — Mozzie would make sure that it wasn't all in vain.

"No, I don't." Mozzie broke eye contact and returned to contemplating his useless legs. He would need a specialized wheelchair. He'd build it himself if he had to, after a few visits to old friends…

"If you don't mind, Peter, I would like to be alone now." He infused his voice with every tone of the wounded invalid, needing time to come to terms with his condition.

Peter stood. "I understand. I'm sorry, Mozzie. I really am." With one last pat on Mozzie's shoulder, he left the room.

In the quiet of the hospital room, Mozzie gave himself time to grieve and cry, for himself and for the friend he would now not be able to follow.

"Be safe, Neal," he whispered to no one in particular. "Wherever you go, be safe — and steal a few paintings for me."

 **A/N: I hope to get the next chapter posted soon. Cheers!**


	2. Chapter 1

**Ten years after Neal Caffrey's death**

The warm morning sun coaxed his eyes open as the wind blew gently through his window, ruffling his bedroom curtains. Neal opened his eyes and sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck as he greeted the morning.

He padded over to his walk-in closet as he blearily picked out an outfit for the day. Armani suit, Italian loafers. He picked out a tie and put it on slowly, careful not to wrinkle the shirt. His hand hovered over the dusty black fedora, but he thought the better of it and exhaled in resignation, fisting his hands at his sides.

He walked over to the full-length mirror and appraised his appearance. Neal Caffrey had woken up that morning, but Richard Wells was now staring back at him in the mirror. Ten years of doing this and it never got any easier.

He had shaved his hair short and dyed it blonde, along with the beard that now covered sharp, recognizable cheekbones. Even his suit was about a size bigger since he decided to gain more muscle mass. He hastily put on the contacts that would cover up blue eyes and replace them with brown ones. Richard Wells looked nothing like Neal Caffrey.

Walking out of the closet, he surveyed his modern, modest apartment. It was always clean, with no left over wine bottles or glasses on the tabletops, no other articles of clothing except his own. The only evidence that he even lived there were a few finished paintings in the corner and a few brushes and paints beside a mounted, empty canvas.

When he first arrived in Paris after leaving New York, he had resolved not to build any serious relationships — there was only so much his heart could take. Neal Caffrey was a social butterfly, but Richard Wells was aloof, a man of the mundane with an eye for detail, and generally a loner. Neal Caffrey flaunted his conman smile — Richard Wells hardly ever smiled like that, preferring instead a solemn handshake. Neal Caffrey was a renowned art thief, but Richard Wells was the head of security at the Louvre. Every Neal Caffrey mannerism, from the way he walked to his love for hats, had disappeared. Neal Caffrey was, for all intents and purposes, dead — but Richard Wells was very much alive, with a legal life and job.

Richard Wells walked over to the kitchen, making a simple breakfast. He was in the middle of eating when his phone rang.

"Hello?"

Over the years, he had spoken American English with a French accent, as well as fluent French, in keeping with his background story — born to American parents who died in France.

" _Richard! I am sorry for calling this early."_

"It's quite all right, Mr. Dupont. I was just about to leave for the museum…"

 _"_ _Don't bother. Meet me at the Cafe Elana — I have something very important to discuss with you. Oui?"_

"Oui, Mr. Dupont. I will be there shortly."

He clicked off his phone and put it in his pocket, grabbing his keys and wallet as he left the apartment, closing the door behind him.

WCWCWCWCWC

 _"_ What does Dupont want with me?" Neal wondered as he walked towards the cafe. Armitage Dupont was the head building operator at the Louvre, essentially Richard Wells' boss. Richard had arrived in Paris without any references when he applied for a job at the Louvre, but Armitage knew how to spot talent and potential. He gave Wells a position on the museum's security team and Richard slowly rose through the ranks due to his eye for detail and uncanny ability to predict ways of entry and criminal activity within the museum.

Neal reached the doorway of the cafe and spotted Armitage Dupont inside, sitting at his preferred table. He gave a nod to the attending waitress and made his way over, greeting his boss as he sat down.

Dupont looked at him with beady eyes behind thick glasses. He was of medium height and build, but very authoritative when it came to managing the people under him. Under his leadership, the Louvre was run like clockwork. There were sentimental days when Neal caught himself thinking that Dupont looked very much like Mozzie.

Dupont raised his hand and ordered two coffees and a croissant from the waiter, who smiled and hurried off to the kitchen. "Thank you for meeting me, Richard."

"It's no problem at all. What was it that you wanted to discuss with me?"

"Ah, yes. Always straight to the point. You Americans," Armitage chuckled. Neal granted him a faint smile.

"I wanted to congratulate you, Richard. Ten years and not so much as a foreign fingerprint on any exhibit in the Louvre. You've done good work." Dupont thanked the waitress who set down their coffee cups and the croissant. Neal studiously kept his eyes on the creamy latte in front of him, a picture of Richard Wells humbly accepting praise in his own bashful manner. "Thank you, sir."

"No need to thank me. In fact, I have a gift for you. You have some vacation time coming up, yes?"

Neal cocked his head to one side and thought about it. Technically he did have some vacation time coming up, and he already had plans — all legal, endeavors of the illegal sort had lost their luster — but Armitage was an interesting man with undoubtably interesting plans.

"Yes, sir. Two weeks."

" _Trés bien!_ I have already made arrangements — your flights and an apartment to stay in, _touts gratuits!_ Do you remember Thomas Durand?"

Neal thought about it. Thomas Durand was an American friend of Dupont's who likewise worked at a major museum in Washington. Other than that, Neal didn't know much about him and paid him little attention when he came to visit his friend at the Louvre. Richard Wells was a man who focused on his job and had little time for paltry pleasantries.

"Yes, sir. Although I must confess I hardly know him, other than the fact that he is one of your close friends."

"He is indeed. _Un trés bon ami._ A few weeks ago he called, asking for my help."

Neal looked at his boss quizzically as he sipped from his mug. "And what does he want from me?"

Dupont took a bite from his croissant and swallowed before answering. "He recently became the head building operator at a famous museum in your America, and the museum has recently acquired a rare Picasso. According to him, the security measures at the museum far paled in comparison to our own fair Louvre," he winked, "and so, I suggested that he acquire the temporary services of our own security head.

Neal allowed himself a slight smirk in reaction to the compliment. "And so I will be traveling to meet him and assist him in his museum's security?"

" _Oui._ I thought you might like the chance to revisit your homeland as well." Neal winced inwardly at the thought. Dupont had no idea how he longed to go back, to have the life he once used to have. "And where would this museum be located?" Neal asked.

"The Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York, I believe. One of your country's biggest and most famous cities, as I am sure you know. The gallery itself is quite famous as well, holding the…"

Neal paled and the sudden thudding of his heartbeat grew louder in his ears, drowning out the praises of his boss for the numerous prizes that the MoMA held within its doors. The city he loved above all others, mainly because of the people who lived there — could it possibly be the time for him to return? A short visit, if only to reassure himself that his sacrifice had not been in vain, that everyone he loved was still alive and safe. News of the Pink Panthers imprisonment and the subsequent dismantling of their entire network had reached him even in Paris, with the official channels praising it as a result of inter-agency cooperation between Interpol and the FBI. Only Neal knew the truth. He had to know, to see that everyone he loved was safe — but he could not go back for good. This was a momentary lapse, a visit, a temporary reprieve from the lie he was living, even if he could never go back to the truth.

"Richard? Are you quite all right?" Dupont's voice, slightly concerned, brought Neal back to his senses from where he had been staring blankly into the dregs of his coffee.

"Hm? Oh, yes, sir. I was just contemplating your offer. It's very generous — thank you."

Dupont looked pleased with himself. "I thought so too. You are a great asset to the art world, Richard — I couldn't possibly keep you here in France all the time." In another time, Neal would have laughed at the irony in that statement — now, he merely inclined his head graciously. "When do I leave?"

Dupont drew out a brown envelope from his inside pocket and gave it to Neal, who opened it and immediately started to peruse its contents. "Tonight, actually. I apologize for the suddenness of it all — I had some trouble booking the flight. This was the only direct flight to New York."

"JFK Airport," Neal said softly. "Thank you, sir." Dupont smiled in welcome and replied, "Other details for your stay are all there. Your apartment information and keys are in there as well. Thomas — his contact details are right there — has personally offered his services as your tour guide, and I sincerely hope he won't talk your ears off," he chuckled.

Neal didn't bother telling his boss how completely unnecessary a tour guide would be, and instead smiled in thanks and tucked the envelope away. Dupont gestured for the waiter to bring the cheque and said, "You have the rest of the day off to prepare and get your things together. Luke has everything under control at the museum. " Neal felt a twinge of guilt at leaving the safety of the museum in the hands of his second-in-command at such short notice. "Sir, are you sure…"

Dupont interrupted him with a wave of his hand. " _Oui!_ Do not even think about refusing. The museum has lasted for ten years under your care — I do not think it will be targeted in two weeks." He brought out a few bills and paid the cheque. "Go! There is nothing wrong with mixing business with pleasure, _oui?"_

Neal smiled the subdued, agreeing smile of Richard Wells. " _Oui,_ Mr. Dupont. I will leave immediately." He stood up and got ready to leave. " _Merci pour le café."_

Armitage Dupont watched his employee leave and contemplated the mystery of Richard Wells. The man had many secrets, that was sure — and his eyes held a lot of pain. He was glad that he could do this for him and give him a bit of happiness.

WCWCWCWCWC

 **A/N: Neal's going home! I hope to get the next chapter posted soon. French words and phrases are from Google Translate, so apologies to any French speakers out there. Also, the Picasso I'm going to write into the story is real! Apparently it's set to be auctioned at Christie's and break some sort of record for being so expensive (you can do a search online and come up with the news article). In my story, the MoMA acquires it. Also, I have been to New York once (I live in Asia) and was unfortunately unable to visit the MoMA. I will be writing about it based on what the internet says and may invent some of my own descriptions. Apologies, again, to any museum/art enthusiasts.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Burke Residence**

The slam of the front door and the pounding of feet woke Mozzie from his nap. "Kid must be home," he thought wryly, as he pushed himself off the bed and maneuvered himself into the waiting wheelchair.

"Uncle Mozzie! Uncle Mozzie!"

"In here," Mozzie called, wincing as he readied himself for the ball of energy that was ten-year-old Neal Jamie Burke. He had his own room on the ground floor of the new Burke house, a bit bigger than the one on DeKalb Avenue in Brooklyn. He had refused, at first, but Elizabeth had convinced him. None of his safe houses, Monday through Sunday, had been constructed to be wheelchair-friendly, and he certainly couldn't add in the adjustments himself. There was no one he trusted now — except, ironically, the Burkes. In return for staying, Mozzie had upgraded the security at the Burke home, installing uncrackable padlocks and safes and checking for listening bugs every other week — a service that Peter pretended to dislike but was secretly grateful for.

After his accident and his realization that he could never follow Neal, he had sunk into a grim depression that was terribly un-Mozzie. Elizabeth noticed, and started letting him take care of Neal Jamie more often. She calculated that there was no way that Mozzie could stay depressed around a baby, given his motherly tendencies. She was right. Mozzie became "Uncle Mozzie", and Neal Jamie grew under his tutelage. Everyone called him "NJ" — the boy had Elizabeth's eyes and Elizabeth's smile, but he had his father's brains and tenacity.

Neal Jamie burst into the room and hastily rummaged through his backpack before bringing out something which looked like an old compass, then throwing his bag aside and bounding up to Mozzie. "Look what I got from the guy at the park near our school!"

Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "Little Gus? What's he been selling these days?" Mozzie knew the seller was harmless, a conspiracy nut who liked to pick up worthless trash and sell them off as "priceless artifacts" with "historical value".

"Everything," Neal Jamie answered as he rolled his eyes. "You know what he likes to do. But this looked real!" He held up the compass for Mozzie to take. "Remember the story you told me about the time that George Washington…"

Mozzie held up his hand to silence his little charge. "Don't let your parents know I tell you those stories," he admonished the boy firmly. "But they already know!" Neal Jamie protested. "Besides, Mom doesn't mind. Dad just makes me watch basketball and baseball games with him for every story you tell me. I don't mind either! You're both fun." He looked at Mozzie imploringly as he sat down on the bed beside him. "Please tell me that watch is real."

Mozzie sighed and resigned himself to studying the watch. "Oh, it's real alright." NJ suddenly sat up, eyes alight. "Real fake." The boy's shoulders suddenly sagged. "How do you even know?" he asked.

Mozzie turned over the watch and wiped away the grime with the ends of his shirt. "Right there." He pointed to the base of the compass and handed it off to Neal Clinton. The letters MADE IN CHINA were clearly visible, stamped into the metal.

Neal Jamie took the compass and sighed heavily. "Oh." Mozzie took pity on the boy and patted him on the back. "Better luck next time, NJ." The boy's face was downcast, and Mozzie took pity on him. He turned his chair around and wheeled himself to his overflowing bookshelf. His fingertips brushed against whole rows of books, ranging from history to astronomy to political science to conspiracy theory. Peter had always suspected that the shelves held some priceless books from long-ago heists, but he never asked and thus sustained plausible deniability. After all, Mozzie was keeping his family safe.

He found the book he wanted and gave it to the boy. " _The Culper Spies_?" Neal Jamie asked quizzically. "Who are they?"

"Read the book, and you'll find out. Just..ah..read it discreetly, alright?" He gave the boy a conspiratorial wink just as he heard the front door open and close and Elizabeth's voice. "NJ? Are you home?"

Neal Jamie gave another conspiratorial wink back to his uncle and accepted the book, hurriedly shoving it into his backpack which he picked up from the floor. "Yes Mom!" he called out.

He whispered a quick "Thanks, Uncle Mozzie" before exiting the room to meet his mother. Mozzie just smiled in welcome and steepled his fingers under his chin as he watched his "nephew" go. This wasn't the life that he and Neal had thought or planned about, but he was starting to see the good in it. It was home, safety, security, love, and family — something that Mozzie realized he had been searching for ever since he had given up on his parents finding him. Fabergé eggs may be beautiful and tempting in a locked safe of a wealthy Russian — but Fabergé eggs couldn't call you "Uncle Mozzie" or drink wine with you in the wee hours of the morning.

Mozzie sighed contentedly as he laid back on his wheelchair and wheeled himself over to the open window. It certainly wasn't the high life, but he had gotten used to this — and if he was honest with himself, this was what he had wanted all along.

WCWCWCWCWC

 **JFK Airport**

Neal shrugged his shoulders as he stepped off the plane, loosening up his muscles after the long flight. He was groggy and drowsy, but he still couldn't contain his excitement as he finally cleared immigration and customs and collected his baggage, eager to finally walk on the New York streets.

But first, he had to fulfill his duties. Dupont had told him that if not as a tour guide, Thomas Durand would insist on meeting him at the airport and accompanying him to his rented apartment, courtesy of the MoMA. Neal leaned lightly on his bag handle as he scanned the waiting people in the arrivals area. Before he could find any familiar sign, a tall, heavy-set man walked up to him.

"Richard Wells?" the man said, his voice deep. "Yes," Neal acknowledged. "You must be Mr. Thomas Durand?"

The man's face broke out into an easy smile and he shook Neal's hand vigorously. "That I am! I can't tell you how grateful I am that Armitage agreed to me borrowing your services. If that Picasso gets lost on my watch, I'll be out of a job. This is my first big break." He clapped a hand on Neal's back in a warm welcome. "Welcome to New York, Richard!"

"Thank you, sir," Neal answered politely. Richard Wells was like that — not easily flustered, not easily excited either. It was a role that went against Neal's very personality, but it was a role he played to the hilt. "I'm looking forward to working with you."

"That's the spirit!" Thomas beamed brightly and took Neal's bag in his hand. "Allow me to play host. I'll just bring the car around then we can get to your apartment. I'm sure the jet lag must be hitting you pretty hard, eh? Always does to me when I go visit that old Armitage."

Neal agreed to play the part of tourist as well, and the rest of the car trip to his rented apartment was spent in indulging Thomas' enthusiastic descriptions of the city, including a few detours in order to catch glimpses of famous landmarks.

Richard looked like he was politely enjoying every second of it, but Neal felt like jumping up and down on his seat like an unruly ten-year-old. He was home.

WCWCWCWCWC

 **White Collar Office**

Jones knocked on Peter's door just as the man was finished signing his name to a document in front of him. "Peter?"

"Jones! I would love to talk right now but I really can't, I have all this paperwork to finish — budget allocations and surveillance requests. How Hughes got through everything is beyond me." Peter's shirt was rolled up to his elbows and ink stains covered his hands. A half-finished cup of coffee sat just beside the pile of papers he had yet to review.

Jones smirked. "I'm sure your duties as the SAC of this office are quite bloodcurdling and get your heart pumping." Peter rolled his eyes and looked up at Jones, his own ASAC. "But there are two things in these folders that you might want to hear."

Peter leaned back in his chair and accepted the two folders. He flipped open the first one and was greeted by a very familiar mugshot. "Alan Woodford," Peter said, teeth clenched. Alan Woodford, head of the Pink Panthers — the case that had cost Neal his life in New York and cost Peter his CI. Jones nodded. "He's dead."

Peter's head shot up. "What? How?" Jones pulled out photos from the folder. "He was found hanging from one of the prison's showers. Police authorities have considered it as a suicide, but _we_ aren't ruling out foul play. The Panthers made a lot of enemies — someone may have tried to get to him inside."

Peter closed the folder and handed it back to Jones, face grim. "Alright. We could look into it, but as far as I'm considered it isn't under White Collar jurisdiction anymore. Hand the file off to Ruiz down at Violent Crimes, I'm sure they could look into it more than we could."

Jones took the file without protest. He could understand why Peter had little to no sympathy for this particular case. Woodford had cost them Caffrey, and the conman's death had hit everyone hard, Peter most of all. Jones resolved to make things easier for his boss and wisely kept quiet.

Peter returned his gaze to the waiting paperwork on his desk. "Anything else?"

Jones gave his boss the other folder. "Oh yeah. We've been hearing chatter that _this,"_ he pointed to the painting in the photo, "is going to be targeted soon. It's a Picasso over at the MoMA."

" _Les femmes d'Alger (Version 'O')_. Weren't we in charge of transporting it from Christie's to the museum? It fetched almost a hundred eighty million dollars." Jones nodded his head. "Yep, one of the Harvard crew teams was on it. Thing is, the head building operator called in a favor. Wants us to guard it until the unknown threat is neutralized."

Peter looked over the file. "Thomas Durand. Alright, get a team on it. I'll authorize surveillance. Meanwhile, find out who wants it and why." He closed the folder and gave it back to his ASAC. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, there's a catch. Two catches, actually." Jones looked sheepish. "Durand doesn't want to lose his job over a possible theft. He's requested our best agent." Peter looked at him and said, "So get on it. Or get one of the Harvard crew on it." Jones shook his head, indicating that it just wouldn't do. "He asked for you personally, Peter. Apparently he's done his homework."

Peter looked at him incredulously. "Then convince him otherwise. Even if I wanted to spend a field day on glorified guard duty, I couldn't possibly get out before next year! And even that's optimistic."

Jones shrugged his shoulders and pointed to himself. "That's why you have your ASAC. Which leads me to the second catch." Peter looked at him suspiciously and waited for him to continue. "I want you to bring Carson with you."

Peter's eyes widened. "You want me to bring your CI on a case? Absolutely not. You know why I can't —" Jones interrupted his boss by sitting down in front of him. "Peter, please. Listen for a bit. Patrick's a good kid. He's brilliant. He just needs a little mentoring, which I can't do because I'll be covering for you on the paperwork front. You said it yourself, this is just glorified guard duty."

Peter looked out to the ground floor of the office, where Patrick Carson was currently trying to make himself a cup of coffee and failing miserably, spilling coffee all over his tie. Peter winced and looked back at Jones. "Your CI for my paperwork?" Jones nodded eagerly. "He really is a good kid, boss. Adores you too." Peter rolled his eyes. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

Jones smirked as he stood up. "Oh I think it got me somewhere," he turned to look at his CI, who was now frantically dabbing handfuls of tissue on his ruined tie. Peter stood up too and gathered up all the papers on his desk and tapped Jones on the back, who turned around and got an armful of paper. It was Peter's turn to smirk as he rolled his shoulders and popped his knuckles. "Oh no, it really didn't."

Jones laughed as he accepted defeat. "Alright, maybe it didn't. Still, I'm glad you could talk to him, spend some time with him. He could really go straight after his time is up. He's the kind of kid who doesn't have it in him to be a criminal, was just dragged into it and made to use his brilliance and love for art in illegal ways."

Peter sighed as he looked at Patrick, who had been arrested as the young mastermind of an art forging ring. Over the years, White Collar had become protective of their CIs, only rarely sending them undercover and only for very short periods of time. No one wanted another CI to end up like Neal — Peter most of all. Knowing Neal was alive took away most of the pain, but not all of it. There was always a dull ache, a hole, an emptiness that walked beside Peter in a Neal Caffrey-shaped form, complete with a fedora and a devilish smile.

Taking on Patrick wouldn't make the pain of losing Neal go away, but maybe it would be a chance to set someone on the right path and make sure they would follow it. Besides, it was just for this case — Patrick was Jones' CI.

"Alright, tell Durand I'll meet him in a few days. Meanwhile, find out who wants that painting."

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 **A/N: Thank you for sticking with the story so far! I hope it has caught your interest.**


	4. Chapter 3

To anyone else, a man dressed in an impeccably tailored suit standing before a grave in the New York cemetery was nothing new. To certain people, it would have been enough to run screaming. Because the man in the suit should have been resting in his own grave. By all rights, he was dead.

The man's blue (now brown) eyes filled with tears as he knelt on one knee in front of the gravestone and rested his hand on the smooth granite. He ran his fingertips over the engraved letters and let the tears fall, watering the grass below. He blinked away more tears as he gently laid down a bouquet of lilies.

"Hi, June," he choked, his voice breaking as he fought to keep his composure. "I'm sorry I wasn't there. In the end, I mean. I don't even know — how it happened." He laughed bitterly. "I still have back rent owed, don't I? You never wanted to collect until I forced it on you. But now you're gone, June…and I'm too late on payment. Ten years too late."

He swallowed. It was stupid and presumptive of him to think that June would still have the attic listed under his name. Ten years was too long to be generous, even for June. The economy had taken too many hits recently, and even the Ellington estate needed to find a way to make money. He tried to brush off the fact that his apartment had probably been lived in by quite a few tenants since his "death". He tried to quiet the lingering voice that told him that he had been forgotten too easily. The apartment would have been cleared of his belongings a month after his death at most.

How could he think that he could just return to New York and everything would return to normal?

He sighed deeply and stood. These were the questions that had been lingering in his head for the whole flight, for every day of the whole ten years that he had stayed away. For everyone he cared about, he had given up everything. And he regretted nothing, he told himself fiercely. Nothing.

Nothing, except maybe perhaps the chance to properly say goodbye.

He walked away from the cemetery, and the man once known as Neal Caffrey — now Richard Wells — melted into the steady stream of New Yorkers who never even gave the man in a suit a second glance.

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After his stop at the cemetery, Richard Wells walked down the Brooklyn suburbs, keeping an eye out for the familiar DeKalb Avenue. He turned a left, a right — and then he saw it. The familiar, two-story home with its simple white paint job. It looked like it had been repainted recently, and Neal smirked inwardly as he imagined Peter Burke in overalls and splattered with white paint. He would have liked to see that, to help out in person, maybe paint a Matisse just outside Peter's window to greet him in the mornings. His heart clenched at the mere thought of so many should-have-beens.

He stood there for a minute, an empty street separating him from the house that had so many times become his sanctuary. He was lost in a deluge of memories — Elizabeth's easy smile as she offered him a cereal bowl, Elizabeth's cooking, Satchmo, Peter's face when he told Neal that he was going to become a father. Neal was suddenly struck by the realization that that boy would be ten years old by now. He imagined Peter bringing the boy to the Yankee Stadium, Peter playing catch with the boy, Peter as a father. And not for the first time, he was reminded of James Bennett — and of how Peter had been more than a father to Neal than James ever was.

He was suddenly nervous. For the first time in a long time, Neal Caffrey did not have a plan. He had been Richard Wells for so long — Richard was soft-spoken, avoided confrontation, avoided any emotional ties whatsoever. Neal Caffrey would have walked right up to the door and rung the doorbell, greeting Peter and Elizabeth with a genuine smile, a tip of a hat, and a bottle of wine. He knew Peter would have figured out the clue in the bottle, and by extension, Elizabeth would have known as well.

But Neal Caffrey was Richard Wells, and Richard Wells was Neal Caffrey. Besides, Neal thought amusedly, if there was any greatest test for his new persona, it was Peter Burke himself. His appearance alone may have fooled any other person, even Elizabeth — he was bulkier now than the Neal they had known, with short blonde hair shaved close to his scalp, a moderately thick beard and brown eyes. But Peter would notice mannerisms — the way he walked, rubbed his nose, drank his wine. Would Peter see through his French accent and constructed personality? It was the ultimate challenge. And Neal Caffrey loved a challenge.

And so he walked boldly across the street and rang the doorbell, suddenly more conscious than ever of his identity. But after ten years, Richard Wells fit him like a second skin — it was a lie he was used to living, and he lived it convincingly.

The doorbell rang once, twice — and then he heard footsteps coming to the door. He readied himself, mind rapidly thinking of a back story. He settled on insurance salesman.

The door opened, and he was greeted by an old woman with gray hair and a cane, who smiled at him graciously in the time-honored tradition of grandmothers who were used to doting on their grandchildren.

Not quite who he was expecting. Perhaps Elizabeth's or Peter's mother was in town. He smiled gently and asked, "Hi, I'm looking for Peter and Elizabeth Burke?" He kept his French accent, his inflections soft and rhythmic.

The old woman looked confused. "Who, dear? There's no one by that name in this house." She adjusted her shawl and pulled it tighter around her shoulders. "You must be mistaken."

Neal thought that perhaps she couldn't understand the names with his French accent. He took a bold risk and dropped the accent, figuring it wouldn't make much difference if she was hard of hearing. "Peter and Elizabeth Burke? I have an insurance appointment?" The old woman shook her head again, growing impatient. "I heard you the first time, honey. There's no Burke living here. I've been here for the last eight or so years, ever since my son moved to Los Angeles. The old house got too big for a little old lady."

A sinking feeling of disappointment hit Neal. Peter and Elizabeth might have moved to Washington after all. It would have made sense, with a baby on the way — a time to start a new life, without convicts and tracking anklets attached. Neal swallowed down the lump in his throat as he realized how much the city had truly moved on. He was dead, but the world had kept on turning. It was only a selfish thought that maybe, Peter would still have been here waiting for him. If they had moved to Washington, he was genuinely happy for Peter — no longer would anyone question his career or throw him in jail just because he chose to let a convicted criminal tag along with nothing but a tracking anklet on. That was one of the things he told himself to keep himself away over the last ten years — that Peter, Elizabeth, even Mozzie — they were all better off without him. And yet, it didn't stop him from wishing that some things had stayed the same.

The old woman watched the face of the man before her, watched the disappointment and sadness flicker over his face and disappear in a blink of an eye. She could tell that he was used to hiding secrets and mysteries. She took pity on him and invited him inside. "I've got a pot of tea boiling."

Richard Wells declined politely and gave his apologies before graciously leaving, because Neal Caffrey couldn't bear the thought of being in the Burkes' kitchen if it wasn't Elizabeth pouring the tea and Peter sharing it with him. Ten years did nothing to his yearning for love and the family he had to leave behind. So many should-have-beens, and Neal Caffrey had never felt so empty. He supposed it was appropriate — he was, after all dead. Dead, forgotten, and left behind.

Richard Wells hailed a taxi and headed for the harbor. He had one more person to find — if that one person hadn't already left him behind too.

WCWCWCWCWC

Mozzie waited for Neal Jamie to return from school, a gift-wrapped book in his lap. He could never pinpoint the time when he went from being the infamous Dentist of Detroit to Doting Uncle, but he didn't regret it. It was funny, the way life turned you around like that. He had once scorned the domestic life, wishing to come and go as he pleased, riding the waves of criminal activity and letting the spoils wash him up on any unknown island. It was exciting. It was also lonely — and Mozzie was tired of being lonely.

He wheeled himself over to the mirror. Few more wrinkles, thicker than usual eyeglasses, and a few gray hairs — he was getting old. He didn't like to admit it, but he was. Strangely enough, he was grateful for the present situation he was in — minus perhaps the wheelchair. But he had a home and family — now he could understand why Neal didn't want to leave New York the first time he asked. They had a treasure and the world at their feet —but they didn't have a home. They were doomed to island-hopping until they hopped into their own graves. In retrospect, that wasn't very appealing at all.

Mozzie had gone through depression and anger at Neal's disappearance — faking his death, leaving him behind — but time had taught him peace. Now, wherever he was, he hoped that Neal was as safe and happy as he was.

He was startled out of his contemplation by the flapping of wings and unmistakable kroo-ing of a homing pigeon. "Estelle?" he said incredulously, wheeling himself over to the window where the bird had landed, head cocked and regarding him coolly with black eyes.

"Oh no, that's right — you're _Estella_." Mozzie corrected himself. "Estelle was your mother, wasn't she? Best homing pigeon in the city of New York." He took the bird in his hands, gently removed the coiled piece of paper attached to her leg, and let her go. "Who is it this time?"

Over the years, Mozzie's old friendships and contacts often tried to get him back in the game. Mozzie helped out occasionally from behind the scenes, but his heart wasn't in it. He eventually just stopped sending replies back, and Estella rarely came to his window.

Mozzie unrolled the paper and read it slowly, eyes noting every detail from the handwriting to the signature. In neat, artistic script, the lines read: "For once you have tasted flight, you will walk the earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will return. ~ Leonardo da Vinci"

Mozzie smiled. A person, a time, and a place in one message. Ten years. What had brought him back?

He dug out his lighter from his pocket and set the note alight with his arm outside the window, watching as the paper curled up into ashes and dropped to the grass below. The closing of the front door and the jangle of car keys told him that Elizabeth Burke was home. He wheeled himself out of his room.

"Elizabeth," he smiled. "Mozzie!" Elizabeth greeted him with one of her signature smiles. "You look happy. What's up?"

"I need a ride," Mozzie asked respectfully. "Just for some fresh air down at Central Park."

Elizabeth looked at him for a second, her face unreadable, before agreeing. "Alright, it's no problem. I just came home to pick up some things before heading back to the office. I can drop you off along the way and pick you up after Peter and I have lunch."

Mozzie smiled gratefully. "You are an angel among humans, Mrs. Suit." Elizabeth laughed, amused, her eyes twinkling. "Come on, then. Maybe we can both be on time to pick up Neal from school so that he won't need to ride the bus. It'll be a nice surprise."

Mozzie patted the gift-wrapped book on his lap. "I already have a surprise for him that should make his day. Let's go!"

They were heading out the door when Elizabeth pointed suspiciously at the book. "Another conspiracy theory?"

Mozzie held up his hand as he rolled up the ramp into the Burkes' car, which had been modified to accommodate his wheelchair. He had been quite touched at the gesture. "Don't ask, don't tell."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes and chuckled as she got into the driver's seat. "Plausible deniability?"

"Plausible deniability," Mozzie agreed as they pulled into traffic.

WCWCWCWCWC

Richard Wells waited on a park bench in front of the odd statue, one of the many hundreds hidden in tiny areas of Central Park, secluded unless you knew how to find them. The bronze athlete was caught mid-run, with his face turned skyward as if petitioning the gods to grant him speed. Neal had always been drawn to the statue — it had no excessive value to speak of and the art was normal at best; but the act, the picture of running, had always captivated him. Small wonder, since he had started running from reality at the age of 18.

He had the New York Times in his hand and was attempting to read it but gave up, instead just skimming the words in an effort to appear occupied. A wheelchair rolled up beside his bench and his breath caught for a second before turning his head slightly to the left.

"Can't say I like the hair." Mozzie smiled and met Neal's eyes. "It's good to see you again."

Neal couldn't say anything, just grabbed Mozzie's arm and held tight, drinking him in, his own eyes filling with tears. Ten years was really too long — but knowing that he would never be able to stay forever made every minute of this a bittersweet torture.

"Steal any paintings lately?" Mozzie asked, in an effort to break the uncomfortable, emotional silence. Neal let out a wet chuckle and had the grace to look indignant. "No, but the Louvre was pretty tempting."

"Oh yes, I saw the newspaper you left behind," Mozzie perked up. "What were you setting your sights on?"

Neal sighed. "Nothing. Nothing was the same anymore, after everything." Mozzie nodded in understanding and turned his head to contemplate the statue. "Oh believe me, I understand that more than anybody."

Neal detected a hint of gravity in his friend's voice. "What are you not telling me, Moz?"

Mozzie kept silent, but his eyes flickered down for a second to look at his wheelchair, and Neal caught it.

"The chair's not just a disguise, is it?" Mozzie shook his head imperceptibly. Neal paled as he took in the implications of his friend in a wheelchair. "What happened?"

Mozzie's voice shook as he told his friend the story of his shooting. "It was after I figured out your clue. I went to the shipping container and started planning my disappearance to follow you. Leaving the lot, I was shot from behind. Didn't get to see the killer or even hear the shot. The Suit was there shortly because he figured out the clue too, and he got me to the hospital in time. Bullet hit the base of my spine, hence this." He gestured to his wheelchair.

Neal couldn't form any coherent thoughts, and a slight sheen of sweat had begun to form on his forehead. "Was…was Peter able to get him?"

Mozzie shook his head. "Guy took my wallet and phone, so the official NYPD report listed it as a mugging. The Suit was smarter than that and suspected that I was targeted. But he didn't see him, and there were no cameras in the area. Gun's markings were filed off and found disposed off in a nearby trash bin. Clean, no fingerprints. Even the Suit had to give up after a while."

Neal tried to process it all but could only come up with an apology. "Moz, I'm so sorry."

"What makes you think you had anything to do with it?" Mozzie asked. "You certainly didn't pull the trigger."

"No, but I left New York so I could prevent this exact thing from happening. Keller warned me of the Pink Panthers' retaliation strategies if ever I took them down. They would come after me and everyone I loved. I left to protect everyone. And now it looks like I've failed." Neal slumped down on the bench and looked at Mozzie with mournful eyes. "I am so, so sorry," he said sorrowfully. "This is all my fault."

"You have no way of even knowing that this was because of the Pink Panthers! The Suit himself said that all the top members were behind bars and that their network was being dismantled by Interpol. There's no way that it could have been them!"

"There are ways, Moz," Neal replied seriously. "They could have killed you."

Mozzie held up one finger. "Ah, but they — whoever _they_ are — didn't. I'm still here."

"Yeah, but you're paralyzed," Neal said sadly. Mozzie looked at him. "So you think they did that on purpose? This was all some sort of calculated kill con?"

"I don't know, Moz." Neal leaned forward and held his head in his hands. "It doesn't make sense. All I know is that I've failed to protect the people I care about." He sat up suddenly. "Peter and Elizabeth! Do you know where…"

Mozzie held up a hand to silence them. "They're fine. And so is their son."

Despite himself, Neal leaned forward eagerly. "Did they move to Washington? They'd be safer there."

Mozzie shook his head. "No. They're still here, in New York." Neal's eyes suddenly filled with fear. "Where? You've got to get them out, Moz. It's not safe for them here. Where are they now?"

Mozzie looked down the lane to his left that led to their secluded area. "Why don't you ask them yourself?"

Neal took a quick look, hidden by the bushes surrounding the statue. Walking down the lane, holding hands and with a cup of coffee each in the other, was Peter and Elizabeth Burke.

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"Thanks for the lunch, hon." Elizabeth said as she kissed her husband on the cheek.

"It's no problem. Now where's this piece of Central Park where Mozzie said he'd be waiting?"

"Right down this lane," Elizabeth pointed. "It's good for him, getting out of the house. Now, tell me more about this new case you've been offered," she asked, a note of concern in her voice.

"Like I told Jones, it's nothing but glorified guard duty, El," Peter replied. "Just an excuse for me to get away from budget reports and duty allocations." Elle threw her head back and laughed. "The SAC life becoming

too boring for you, Agent Burke?" she asked teasingly. Peter smiled in return.

"Even Reese could be seen on the field drawing his gun sometimes. You know me, El. I've always loved the field work over the desk work." Elizabeth agreed and said, "I do know you. I just want to make sure you'll be okay. It has been some time since your last case on the field."

Peter stopped in his tracks and turned to face his wife, his face serious. "Mrs. Burke," he admonished grimly, "Are you trying to imply that I'm getting old?"

Elizabeth smiled wider and reached up her hand to touch the graying temple of her husband's hair. "Just a bit."

Peter relaxed and kissed her on the cheek. "Well, let's just say field work keeps me young and leave it at that."

Elizabeth laughed and agreed, the two of them coming upon Mozzie, who was sitting alone in front of the statue.

"Planning on stealing it alone, Mozzie?" Peter joked. Mozzie turned his head to look at him and quoted sagely, "The more powerful and original a mind, the more it will incline towards the religion of solitude."

"Aldous Huxley," Peter quipped. "Very good, Suit," Mozzie said, clapping his hands slowly. "There might be some hope for you after all."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Alright, come on boys. Mozzie and I have to pick Neal up from school, and Peter has to drink from the FBI's field work fountain of eternal youth."

Mozzie just looked at Peter, eyes gleaming. "I knew the government was keeping the fountain! Makes sense that they would charge the FBI with guarding it, since the federal powers that be…" Peter just tuned him out and pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers while El laughed.

Neal watched from afar as Peter and Elizabeth picked up Mozzie and the three of them left, laughing and joking easily. Peter looked the same, if not a little older and careworn with graying temples. Elizabeth was still beautiful. Motherhood had lent her a certain glow that shined every time she smiled. Neal was amazed that Mozzie, of all people, would get so attached to the Burkes.

He watched them go and chills ran down his spine. His gut told him that Mozzie's shooting hadn't been an ordinary mugging. It was planned, all of it — and whoever was behind it was patient, willing to wait ten years or more. But if not the Pink Panthers, then who? Why did they target Mozzie and leave him alive?

Was it all just a game? If so, Neal was up against a very patient chess player. Ten years was a long time to wait to make your move.

WCWCWCWCWC

Later that night, Peter and Elizabeth sat on the patio drinking wine after their day. Peter was reviewing case files and El was reading a book. After taking a particularly long sip of her Cabernet, Elizabeth spoke. "Hon?"

"Mm?" Peter looked up from the file he was reviewing, the provenance of the MoMA's Picasso. "I think something's up with Mozzie."

Peter closed the folder and gave his wife his full attention. "Why makes you say that?"

"Just something he said to me earlier today, before he asked me to bring him to the park."

Peter raised his eyebrow, willing her to continue. "She leaned forward and put her wine glass on the table in front of them. "He called me 'Elizabeth'."

Peter understood. "Ah. He has never called you that, has he?"

"Only when he's emotionally vulnerable," El clarified. "And today he looked happy, happier than he's been in a long time."

Peter pursed his lips and thought. "Well, if we spot any heists committed by a man on wheels, then I'll let you know." El looked at her husband sternly. "Peter!"

Peter let it go and picked up the file again. "I'm sorry, hon. I'm sure it's nothing. Even Mozzie deserves to be happy."

El smiled and curled up close to her husband, with Peter putting his arm around her. "I'm sure you're right. You're a good man, Peter Burke." When this was greeted by Peter's silence, El knew it was her turn to figure out what was on her husband's mind.

"What's wrong, hon? I thought you'd be happy about field work," El asked. Peter exhaled heavily. "I am. It really is just guard duty until we know who wants the painting and why, but there was a catch." El waited for her husband to continue. "Jones asked me to bring Patrick Carson along."

Then El understood. "It has been some time since you've worked with a CI," she said gently. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Peter sighed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. "I honestly don't know," he admitted. "When I thought that Neal died, I…I fell apart. I saw his body lying there and all that was going through my head was how much I failed him, how much he didn't deserve this." El laid a comforting hand on her husband's shoulder as she listened. Neal's death had broken all of them in some way, and even hearing from her husband years later that Neal was alive somehow changed nothing. She just couldn't bring herself to believe it somehow.

"And now, knowing he's alive — I still miss him, El. Everyday. I still see him out of the corner of my eye, taunting me as I finish stacks of paperwork. Taking on Patrick — it feels like I'm betraying him somehow. I know it's crazy, because Neal Caffrey is out there somewhere, living it up, and probably wouldn't care about who I put an anklet on this time, but it still feels that way." El kept silent, knowing that her husband would continue until he had poured out everything he had to say.

"That's one part of me feels. Another part feels like this is a chance to make things right, to set someone on the right path and make sure they really do follow it. Patrick's just a kid, El — almost fresh out of college. But I don't want to do this to him — he'd be working in Neal Caffrey's shadow when he works with me, and I'd hate to do that to him. You should have seen him in the office, El — he can't even handle a pot of coffee without drenching his whole tie in it. Jones says he looks up to me, but I can't make him work in Neal's shadow. He deserves so much better than that."

El smiled faintly and started rubbing comforting circles on her husband's back. "You're a good man, Peter Burke," she repeated. Peter looked at her and asked dejectedly, "What does that have to do with what I just said?"

"It has everything to do with what you just said. You cared — and still care — deeply for Neal, and you care about this Patrick kid too. Do what you're good at, Peter Burke — you care, and you'll do what's best for the people around you. Don't worry, you'll figure this out. In fact, I'm willing to bet you already have." Elizabeth watched her husband's face and saw his resolve come back, bit by bit. She smiled to herself. He had already accepted Patrick Carson, she thought — he just needed some extra encouragement.

Peter smiled at his wife and laid his own hand on top of hers. "Thanks, hon."

Elizabeth merely smiled as she lifted up her wine glass to her mouth. "Anytime."

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A/N: That was a long chapter! Hopefully it's still good. Up next, Peter and Neal finally work together (sort of) to guard the Picasso. Read and review please!


	5. Chapter 4

Peter straightened his tie in the mirror as Elizabeth exited his kitchen bearing three plates of eggs and toast, already dressed for her own day. Mozzie almost never got up this early and Neal Jamie was preparing for school upstairs. She would set aside some food for Mozzie later. She miled as her husband sat down at the table and started eating. "Today's the day, isn't it?"

Peter stopped mid-chew and looked at his wife inquisitively. "What day?"

El looked at her husband disapprovingly as he meekly swallowed the remaining food in his mouth. "The day you go back to the field with Patrick."

Peter nodded. "I'm picking him up at his place. It's a decent place — nothing like June's was…but good enough for the kid. Safe." El pretended not to hear the slight sadness that had crept into her husband's voice when he mentioned June's apartment. "That's great. Gives you boys some time to bond in the car," she said nonchalantly.

Peter stiffened minutely then relaxed, concentrating on eating his breakfast. "Where's NJ?" he asked. Again, El pretended not to notice the not-so-subtle subject change. She sighed inwardly. It would take some time for her husband to get used to the idea of a new CI — and she wanted to help. But for now, she would play along.

"NJ!" she called. "Hurry up or you'll miss the bus!" the sudden thudding of feet on the stairs caused both parents to look up and see their son fully dressed.

Peter beamed up at his son. "Hey buddy! Got some eggs and toast for you." Neal Jamie ran to the table and eagerly sat down in front of his own plate. "Where's Uncle Mozzie?"

Elizabeth answered, "Now honey, you know Uncle Mozzie doesn't get up this early. He needs his beauty sleep." Peter chuckled at that, and Neal Jamie appeared satisfied.

The family ate in companionable silence, with Peter's and NJ's occasional talk about the latest baseball game and El's constant reminders to her son about schoolwork. They were interrupted by the sound of the school bus near their front door. "Bus is here, honey," Elizabeth said, gesturing for her son to come closer as she inspected his clothes and made sure he had all his homework. Peter grinned at his son and opened his arms for a hug, which Neal Jamie enthusiastically returned.

"Bye Mom! Bye Dad!" he called over his shoulder as he ran out the front door. Both parents smiled after him and returned to their breakfast. Peter frowned when he discovered something missing from his plate. "Hey, where's my last piece of toast?"

El smiled, amused, and rolled her eyes in the direction Neal Jamie had taken. Peter looked at her incredulously, "He's as bad as his namesake!"

El laughed as she stood up and collected the plates. "Really, Peter? Blaming his namesake? I think Neal would have been proud." Peter gave a wistful smile at that. "I bet he would." He put on his coat and kissed his wife on the cheek. "Bye, hon. See you later."

"Mm. I was thinking — why not invite Patrick for dinner tonight? You know…just to celebrate your first case together." Peter looked at his wife and pursed his lips, face unsure. "Are you sure you want to do that, hon? Besides, he's Jones' CI. And we haven't done that since…since Neal."

Elizabeth took note of her husband's reaction. She knew that no one else could have been as close to her husband as Neal had been, but that didn't mean that Peter couldn't build new relationships. She knew exactly how much love he had to give and how much he cared for people — he just had problems figuring it out for himself. She smiled an encouraging smile and said, "Well, we've never hesitated to invite reformed criminals into our house before. Why stop now?"

Peter still looked hesitant. Just a little more, El thought… "Tell you what, ask him over and if he agrees, text me so I can make an extra-large pan of lasagna tonight." Peter took a beat and finally, reluctantly agreed. "Alright, I'll ask him. He might not want to, though — kid's skittish around people."

El shook her head. "He may be skittish around people but no one can be skittish around my lasagna. It'll be good for him." Peter gave up, knowing that when his wife put her mind to it, she could do anything. He headed out the door with a promise to ask Patrick Carson to dinner at the Burke home.

WCWCWCWCWC

"Wells!" Durand's voice boomed through the front hall of the MoMA as Neal entered the front door, with no flamboyant entrance whatsoever. He walked purposefully, but with a stilted, clipped gait. Gone was the open flourish of the confident conman — instead, what remained was the walk of a man who was guarded and closed off. He was Richard Wells again today — and would be forever. He was simply finding it harder here, in New York — Neal Caffrey's home.

He got close enough to shake Thomas' hand and incline his head politely. "Good morning, Monsieur," Neal greeted politely, his voice once again carrying Richard's polished French accent. Thomas looked at him and shook his head. "None of that, my boy. I'm not nearly as old as your boss back at the Louvre — although I am getting along in years," he chuckled. "Call me Thomas."

"Thomas," Neal agreed. "May I see the painting now?"

Thomas Durand clapped a hand vigorously on Richard's back, sending him off balance and pitching forward. "Of course! I like your attitude, Wells. Bright and early, too. Might have to steal you permanently from Armitage after all." He walked on and beckoned for Neal to follow. Neal fidgeted a bit before following, thrown off by Thomas' suggestion. If he was truly to come back, work at the MoMA — but no, he told himself firmly, that would never happen, no matter how much he wished and dreamed. Mozzie had already been targeted — if the same people knew he was back in New York, they would almost certainly follow him to Peter, Elizabeth…their son. He shivered at the thought, then shook his head in an effort to clear his mind of Neal Caffrey-related thoughts. Richard Wells was needed.

Thomas stopped in the middle of an enormous room, with glass windows on one side and paintings on the other. The Picasso was displayed prominently in the center, the crowning glory. Richard took a small gasp, just enough to show his appreciation for the piece of art. That was the one thing that wasn't a lie — both Neal and Richard loved art.

Thomas rocked back and forth on his heels, his face bearing a self-satisfied expression. "Magnificent, isn't it? It was the first acquisition when I first came here, just recently. You understand, of course," he said, turning to Neal, "that this cannot, under any circumstances, get lost — for lack of a better term."

Richard Wells nodded solemnly and began his work. "I'll need floor plans for this one and the ones above and below it, as well as the current security mechanisms already in place. How much are you willing to spend for the upgrades?" he asked.

Thomas gazed at the Picasso and then back at Neal. "For this piece? Money is no object. The museum board and I are of quite the same mind when it comes to the safety of our pieces. The MoMA is long overdue for security upgrades. In fact, if I can convince Armitage to let you stay a little longer, I'd like for you to look over the whole building. You've done good work at the Louvre," he said genuinely. "I'd like for the MoMA to be just as secure."

Richard inclined his head at the compliment, and employed a classic Caffrey misdirect in order to avoid answering the offer that had just been subtly proposed. "I think the Picasso carries the most urgency at this point, _no?_ We should get to work."

WCWCWCWCWC

Peter waited outside the modest apartment building, sipping the cup of coffee he had picked up along the way. He glanced at the second cup he had bought, still fairly hot and steaming. He imagined Neal entering the car, throwing a few friendly jibes about Peter's tie as his way of greeting him good morning, taking a sip of the coffee and grimacing at the taste…

He was interrupted by a slight knock on the window and looked up to see Patrick Carson grinning shyly outside the car. He unlocked the door and smiled invitingly for the youth to come in.

Patrick was dressed in a light-blue shirt, slacks, and brown shoes, no tie. He was shorter than Peter, with light brown hair that was combed to one side and blue eyes. _Blue eyes, like…_

Peter stopped himself. If he was going to do this right, he needed to put all thoughts of Caffrey out of his mind. Patrick was not Neal Caffrey — that much was obvious from the way he dressed. He was clumsy, uncoordinated, like a college kid that hadn't hit puberty yet.

Patrick eyed the second cup of coffee doubtfully, and Peter noticed. He took pity on the kid, who was pretty scrawny for his age. It was hard for him to believe, looking at him, that he had been the mastermind of an art forging ring. That was one reason why White Collar had offered him the CI deal — he was just too young to be put in prison with hardened criminals.

"Go ahead," Peter urged. "That's for you." Patrick beamed and his face ultimately betrayed how young he was as he reached forward and grabbed the warm cup in his hands. Not for the first time, his heart clenched at the enormous, familiar responsibility that was sitting next to him in the car. Yes, Patrick wasn't Neal, but he deserved a second chance.

"This is great," Patrick said wonderingly. "Thank you!" Peter quirked an eyebrow as he pulled into traffic. "You really don't know much about coffee, do you?" _Neal loved his cappuccino in the clouds, Italian roast just the way he liked it…_

Patrick shrugged. "I take what I can get," he said shyly. "In college, we used to drink all sorts of sludge just to power through several all-nighters. Red Bull, energy drinks, coffee, energy drinks with coffee…" he trailed off as he noticed Peter's face. "Sorry, I'm rambling," he apologized meekly.

Peter smiled gently. "It's alright. We've all been there — the sludge served by the FBI isn't all that great either." A moment of awkward silence passed, with Patrick fidgeting in the car seat. Peter could practically hear El's voice in his head telling him to talk to the kid.

"What do you say we talk about the case?" he started, watching Patrick for any reaction. _Neal's eyes would light up, and he would immediately spew off any and all known facts about the painting, painter, or its previous owners…_

But Patrick was not Neal. Patrick merely leaned farther back in his seat and nodded hesitantly. "Okay…umm…I guess we could." Peter sighed inwardly. This was going to take time.

WCWCWCWCWC

Richard Wells was in the middle of educating Thomas Durand on how the fire exits presented possible entrances to the gallery and the specific hall where the Picasso was placed. He was in his element, describing every minute detail of every possible heist — and Durand was listening with rapt attention, taking mental notes on the best ways to safeguard his museum's newly-acquired treasure.

Neal was halfway through elaborating on the potential dangers of a fire exit so close to the painting when Durand's phone rang. He winced and excused himself, leaving Richard Wells vaguely affronted. Richard tapped his foot, glanced at his watch — he was not a man who liked to be kept waiting.

"Alright, Alice, send them in. Thank you." Durand clicked off his phone as Richard raised his eyebrows in question as to what could have possible been so important. "That was my secretary. FBI agents from the White Collar Unit are on their way in. I requested their cooperation to ensure the utmost protection of the painting. I hope you don't mind working with them — I hear they're very capable." Thomas looked pleased with himself, with this extra precaution that he had been so brilliant to think of — that he didn't noticed how the blood drained from Richard Wells' face, how a slight sheen of sweat had formed over his forehead and how his hands started shaking imperceptibly.

"White Collar?" Neal asked in Richard's aloof, superior voice. "I have not heard of them before — not in Paris, at least. What are their names?" With any luck, Neal thought, they would just be ordinary, run-of-the-mill probies who had only seen Wanted posters of Neal Caffrey. Worst-case scenario, they would be Jones and Diana, because he doubted Peter himself would come out on a case that was basically guard duty. Richard Wells could fool Clinton Jones and Diana Berrigan — but Neal Caffrey wasn't so sure about Peter Burke.

"I asked for the best agent they had," Thomas answered smugly, "Did my research too. Turns out the guy with the highest closure rate in their department was already head honcho of the office. But I wouldn't take no for an answer," he puffed out his chest proudly. "Got him to take it. Name's Peter Burke, I believe — and I was told he might be bringing a consultant along, an art expert."

All at once, Neal felt an inexplicable wave of complicated emotions rise inside him and crash over his head. So Peter had become SAC of White Collar NY — it was a long time coming. That was pride, pride in the best friend and partner he had ever had, someone who deserved that and so much more. Not for the first time, he was glad that he had left Peter's career intact — after everything he had done, the best thing he could have done was given Peter a semblance of peace.

Then came the hurt, the betrayal, and the selfish anger. Peter had taken on a new CI. Peter had replaced him. The whispers that had overcome him at June's grave threatened him once more, rising from the darkest corners of his mind and building into a crescendo, shouting that he had been forgotten so easily, that he had left no one's heart to break for him, mourn for him, love him even after he was gone. For all he knew, Peter could have taken on this new CI just months or a year after Neal Caffrey's death. Peter had once told him that he was indispensable, a valuable asset. Peter had also told him that he was a criminal.

The rational side of him that begged him to give Peter a chance was drowned out, overpowered. Peter had cared about him, he tried to tell himself. Peter had come after him, chased after him to the ends of the earth — only to protect him. Peter had put himself on the line for him time and again. Surely…surely Peter wouldn't have forgotten him that easily? Peter had loved him like a brother, like a friend, like a partner.

But the bitter side of him won out. It was all in the semantics, really — Peter _had_ loved him. Peter had no obligation to love a dead man.

WCWCWCWCWC

Thomas was gazing at the painting when the sounds of two pairs of shoes on the marble floors caught his attention. Peter Burke and his consultant were entering the hall.

He tapped Richard Wells on the shoulder, intent on telling him that their FBI friends had arrived, but drew back at the sight of Wells' face.

Richard's face was deathly pale, white as a sheet, with eyes that somehow looked bloodshot and suspiciously bright. His forehead was sweaty, and the shoulder that Thomas had tapped was shaking — Richard Wells was shaking.

"Good grief, Wells! You look like you've seen a ghost!" Neal chanced a glance back. Peter and his new CI were a mere 30 paces away, and coming closer by the second. He could almost see Peter's face, see the care in his eyes…

No. He had to leave, had to escape before he was found out. He panted — drawing in air felt like sucking through a straw, and his lungs felt constricted. He loosened his tie frantically as Thomas looked on, looking more and more alarmed. "Wells? There's a restroom right down the opposite hall…"

Perfect. Neal gathered every ounce of composure he had and put on the mask of Richard Wells again. "Thank you…I…perhaps the air in here does not agree with me. I will be back shortly." Neal all but stumbled in his effort to walk briskly away from the dumbfounded Durand, who shortly after found himself shaking hands with Peter Burke, SAC, and Patrick Carson, CI.

"Who was that?" Peter asked, gesturing in the direction Neal had taken. Thomas looked concerned and answered, "My security consultant, on loan from my good friend at the Louvre. You know the French," he chuckled nervously. "They have fickle ways."

WCWCWCWCWC

Neal stumbled into the restroom and pushed one stall door open, sinking down in the left corner opposite the toilet. He would throw up if he could, all the anger and hurt and pity for himself building up at the bottom of his throat like poisonous acid. He had sacrificed so much, had told himself it was worth it, but didn't know how much it would keep taking from him, keep asking from him even the most precious memories he held dear, memories of him and Peter running undercover operations, with the other always just a step or two behind, always a safety net, always _there._

He knew that if he walked back out there, continued living his own chosen lie, that every moment would be unbelievable, living torture — he had no heart in him to hate the new CI who now walked beside Peter, but the jealousy had become a tangible pain, pulsating through his veins and hammering through his temples. Every memory he ever had would be rendered useless, obsolete. Neal Caffrey would be forgotten.

But Peter would be alive. Peter would still be able to solve cases, hold Elizabeth in his arms, throw a ball for his son to catch. And that was the poetry of it all — Neal had to die, even in memory, for Peter to live. The world never wanted to give men like Neal Caffrey anything — but for men like Peter Burke, the world couldn't give enough. And so Neal would.

He stood up, brushed out the wrinkles from his rumpled suit, and walked out of the stall. He stared at himself in the mirror as he braced his hands on the sink, searching for some kind of support. He stared into soulless eyes, eyes that had told a lie for so long that they had forgotten what the truth was. He tried to imagine himself from ten years before — Neal Caffrey of the wavy black hair, piercing blue eyes, quintessential fedora, and conman smile. He was not that, this shell of a man.

This man was Richard Wells — stern, aloof, with a mouth that rarely smiled and brown eyes that were always set on their course. Hair shaved short and a well-kept beard — this was who he was now. He ruefully took note of the few worry lines that had appeared on his forehead.

He splashed water on his face and patted it dry, in an effort to look presentable once more. He slapped his cheeks to regain color and turned off the taps, appraising himself in his reflection. "Good enough to be blamed on a stomach bug," he thought ruefully as he exited the bathroom, mindful of the way he walked and swung his arms.

Today, the lie would become the truth, even if it killed him to be yards away from Peter and not be the one at his side.

This was what it was like to be well and truly dead.

WCWCWCWCWC

 **A/N: I decided to end it here as a sort of cliffhanger. Not a very good one, but I hope it will do for now. College starts in a few days and updates may be less frequent from now on. Do leave a review if you like/hate the way the story's going so far, as well as some of your predictions for the plot, if you like. Til the next time, cheers!**


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